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robininthelabyrinth · 11 months

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Lao Nie doesn't die after his sword is broken. The mad Nei leader stays in power. Huisang gets the opportunity to remember his father. Some memories are good. 🙃🙃🙃

survival (of a sort) - ao3

“You can paint, right?” Nie Mingjue asked, and Nie Huaisang hummed in something that wasn’t quite agreement, but wasn’t disagreement, either.

After all, he could paint. He was actually quite proud of his painting, really. He thought he was getting pretty good at it, and he practiced it all the time when he was alone – it was certainly a lot more fun than anything else he could be doing. He’d even gotten a few compliments from people when they saw things he’d made, though he usually didn’t let them know that what they were admiring was his own work. He never admitted anything.

It went against his principles to admit that he had any skills.

It wasn’t good to have skills.

Skills could be used, after all. Look at Nie Mingjue, who had so many skills – who was blessed, or cursed, with the ability to be good at any martial art, a talent for saber that hadn’t been seen in a thousand years, a natural grasp on strategy, tactics, and even command. He didn’t have any artistic skills, couldn’t draw a straight line or keep a tune to save his life, but that was about the only thing he couldn’t do.

He could even control that nasty temper he’d inherited.

Not that he’d had much choice but to learn that. None of them had any choice, when it came to that – the only person allowed to be angry was their father.

Their father, the Sect Leader.

Their father, the madman.

It’d all started when Wen Ruohan had broken their father’s beloved saber, Jiwei. Nie Huaisang had been quite young at the time, so he didn’t know why the other sect leader had done something like that – according to Nie Mingjue, they’d actually been pretty fond of each other before that – but if it had been meant to assassinate him, it hadn’t worked. Their father had survived…mostly.

It was that mostly that was the real problem.

If you asked Nie Huaisang, they probably would’ve been better off if the assassination had worked.

Not that anyone ever asked Nie Huaisang.

“If I asked you to paint something…” Nie Mingjue started to say, then trailed off, his expression distant as he studied the wall next to them with great interest, not looking at Nie Huaisang for too long lest someone tell their father that they were plotting together again – that had happened about a year ago, some waste of space trying to show off, trying to play on the mad sect leader’s qi-deviation-induced paranoia to make themselves seem valuable, try to climb up the ladder to power by stepping on the existing heirs. It had resulted in the two of them not being allowed to see each other for a month, two broken bones for Nie Mingjue to add to his extensive collection, and Nie Huaisang having taken his first life, though no one knew about that last one. They just knew that the bastard that had tried the little scheme hadn’t even finished convalescing from the beating the sect leader had given him for interrupting his day when someone had made their way into his bedroom in the middle of the night and slit his throat.

No one had bothered checking on who might’ve done it.

After all, the obvious assumption was that it had been the sect leader himself, out on one of his midnight walks – he didn’t sleep anymore, too red-eyed and swollen with fury to ever properly rest – having somehow remembered the poor bastard’s name and face and decided to go finish the job.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

So, really, there was no point in checking, no point in looking. The only thing that could be done was to wait until the sect leader was distracted by something else – when there was another, newer target for his rage.

There was always something to be angry about.

It was usually the wars. Or, well, it had been the wars, consistently, these past few years; war was messy and unpredictable, always good for a distraction. But with the Nie sect’s ascendancy to the position of supreme sect rapidly growing ever more steadily consolidated, there were fewer and fewer sects daring to stand against them, and fewer excuses for war. Who wanted to be slaughtered like dogs, their lives and those of their families fed to the sect leader’s shoddily reforged saber like meat to a fattened pig?

They’d started surrendering instead of fighting, picking life over dignity.

Sometimes it even worked.

That was all well and good for them, but not so good for the people of the Unclean Realm.

Here, people were starting to worry what life would be like when the sects willing to fight back ran out. The streets of the Unclean Realm were filled with whispers, people asking each other how much longer could Lanling Jin afford to pay for mercenaries, or perhaps more accurately, given how swiftly they died, how many more mercenaries would be available to be bought. They asked each other if the Lan sect was still holding strong, proud and rigid in their morality and rules, or if they’d retreated into the safety of seclusion at long last, the cost of chivalry finally too high for them to pay. They asked if the much-reduced Jiang were thinking of rebelling again, or if they’d finally learned their lesson the last time around. They asked…well, that was all they asked.

(Once in a while, someone asked about the Wen sect. They were forcibly made to shut up as swiftly as possible.)

The important part wasn’t what sect led the war against them. The important part was the war.After all, if there wasn’t a war, then what would they have with which to distract their terrible sect leader?

If he wasn’t leading a war, then he’d be at home. At home all the time.

That would be bad.

“If you wanted something painted, I could probably whip something together,” Nie Huaisang said casually. Too casually, as if he wouldn’t break his own back if it meant doing something for his brother, who never asked for anything for himself. His brother, who was the only reason they still had anything resembling a functional sect – who’d taken on all the horrible chores of sect leadership that their madman of a father was no longer capable of, the mundane and boring stuff about fixing the laundry when it broke or making sure there wasn’t a shortage in shoes. His brother, who was the only person who still spoke up to their father to stop him, as much as possible, from bringing the atrocities committed outside their borders back home.

There was a reason he had all those broken bones.

Nie Mingjue insisted, to this day, that it wasn’t their father’s fault that he was like this. He’d been driven mad by the loss of Jiwei, the rage from the saber sinking into his own soul and corrupting it, the qi deviation turning black into white – the closer he had been to someone, the more he hated them now.

If you thought about it that way, their father must have adored his eldest son.

Nie Huaisang thought cynically sometimes that he himself had gotten lucky: when the break had happened, he’d been too young to have much of a personality, and so his father’s love for him had been of a more generic nature. It didn’t exempt him from his father’s current hatred, the resentment in him seething at the mere sight of Nie Huaisang, but it did mean that his father’s memories of him were largely composed of waiting for him to get old enough to teach. Waiting for him to get down the basics of cultivation and the saber well enough that they could really start spending quality time together, so that he could pass down the Nie sect’s cultivation to him the way he had to Nie Mingjue.

Too bad that Nie Huaisang was never, ever going to get the basics down.

What a good-for-nothing he was!

“How accurate can you get?” Nie Mingjue wondered, still not looking at him directly. He had a black eye again, swiftly fading – he’d probably be dead if his cultivation wasn’t as good as it was, and Nie Huaisang hated that he had to thank his father for that, for giving Nie Mingjue the foundation in cultivation he needed to survive the wreckage of their lives, survive the monster that his father had become. “I mean, that bird you did a few days ago was pretty dead on, true to life.”

“Uh-huh,” Nie Huaisang said. “Really. What type of bird was it again?”

Nie Mingjue shot him a comically betrayed look that made Nie Huaisang have to force down laughter – his brother couldn’t tell the difference between a cuckoo and a quail, with a habit of calling everything with talons a hawk, everything black a raven, and everything else divided neatly into being either a songbird or a chicken.

“I can do it,” he said again, and meant it this time. “Don’t worry about it, da-ge, I can do even better than that bird if I try. What is it?”

“Oh, just some abstract designs I think are pretty,” Nie Mingjue said. “I’ll show you sometime. No rush.”

Nie Huaisang knew well enough by now to know that that meant he ought to be fully dressed and ready to go that night at midnight, when his brother appeared in his room with nothing for light but a night-pearl and a few cloaks to help them blend in better. If they were caught by their father on his endless nighttime prowls, they would be in serious trouble – not at risk of dying, since their father still remembered that he needed to preserve his heirs, though he clearly no longer understood the reason why – and it was better to avoid that if they could. Midnight was usually the safest time. That was when their father typically went to the forges, to try yet again to reforge his saber, as if the dozens or hundreds of times he’d tried before had simply been inadequate, rather than the task itself being impossible.

It was usually the safest time.

“If he sees us, stay still and don’t move,” Nie Mingjue instructed, after giving Nie Huaisang a great big hug that neither of them had wanted to break. “I’ll go forward and get his attention. I don’t want him seeing you.”

“He’ll be less angry if it’s me he sees,” Nie Huaisang argued, but his big brother shook his head firmly. “Da-ge, please. You still haven’t finished healing from that thing two weeks ago. It’s my turn. I deserve the chance to bear the burden.”

Sometimes that worked, now that Nie Huaisang was old enough to make the argument plausible, but not tonight – Nie Mingjue was implacable.

“I want you to focus on copying out the design,” he said stubbornly. “That’s more important.”

“You going to tell me what it is you need copied so badly?”

“It’s better if you see it yourself.”

Their path, this night, led them down the spiraling stairs into the belly of the Unclean Realm, the places lower down and further away. At first, Nie Huaisang thought they were going to go to the prison that was there, to copy a portrait of some poor imprisoned soul for their family outside, but they went past that place without stopping. So next he thought they were going to go to the family shrines, the locked-away places in the deep dark caverns beneath the mountain that sheltered and backed their home, but they went past that, too.

They went deeper.

It turned out that his first guess had been the right one: they were going to a prison.

“Welcome back,” Wen Ruohan said, and bared his teeth. The few people that Nie Huaisang had found that were willing to speak of the past had said that Wen Ruohan had had the appearance of a distinguished gentleman, his clothing beautiful and his manner impeccable, his smile always urbane and refined despite the atrocities he committed, but that was then, and this was now – his father’s former friend turned would-be killer had little left of whatever poise he might have once possessed. His clothing was still of fine material, but it had gone ragged and faded with age and too many washes; it couldn’t conceal how thin he had become, nor the viciousness in his eyes, red-rimmed and marked with dark circles underneath. It couldn’t conceal the way he no longer smiled but only grimaced.

It couldn’t conceal the two stubs at the end of his arms, where his hands had been chopped off at the wrist.

“He’s an array master,” Nie Mingjue told Nie Huaisang, a short sentence that explained everything. That was why their father had butchered Wen Ruohan’s hands, their family origin showing itself after all these generations of pretending to be noble; that was why he had locked him away in this pit with little light and nothing he could use to write.

That was why they were here, now.

His brother would have done it without him if he could, Nie Huaisang knew. To this day, the mention of the Wen was the surest way to drive their madman of a father into a murderous frenzy – those surviving few who had been surnamed Wen had changed it to preserve their own lives, most of them taking on the surname ‘Wei’ after the brave couple, Wei Changze and Cangse Sanren, that had come to rescue those of them that they could from the aftermath of Wen Ruohan’s fall; Nie Huaisang thought he’d heard that they’d gone to ground in Yiling, making their own little sect, isolated by a wary world but for a distant alliance with the Gusu Lan largely formed through the strength of Cangse Sanren’s old friendship with Lan Qiren. They teetered, as far as Nie Huaisang knew, on the edge of starvation, unable to leave the safety of the Burial Mounds for fear that the mad Sect Leader Nie would come try to finish the job he’d once started – and they were right to be afraid.

Their father would kill them if he could. He’d kill anyone who had anything to do with the Wen.

Anything at all.

This thing they were doing now, this newest plan of Nie Mingjue’s to try to save people because that was what it always was, that was always the reason, was more dangerous than anything they had ever done before. Nie Huaisang knew that.

He knew, too, that his brother would prefer that he was left out of it. He always tried to keep Nie Huaisang out of things, always tried to protect him, always worried first and foremost whether he would be safe. For something as dangerous as this, something involving the Wen and Wen Ruohan in particular, he especially wouldn’t want Nie Huaisang to be involved.

But his brother couldn’t paint a straight line if he tried.

His calligraphy was called bold and vigorous, but in truth was sometimes better called nearly illegible; he could draw talismans, if he had to, forcing the scribbles to bear some spiritual energy and do more-or-less what they were supposed to, but the ones he made never worked as well as they would if made by someone with actual talent in the art.

Talent like Nie Huaisang’s.

“You trust him?” Nie Huaisang asked, curious. He assumed the answer was yes, given that they were here, but in the end this was the man who had brought all of this trouble down on their heads. If Wen Ruohan hadn’t broken Jiwei, their father wouldn’t be so obsessed with trying to put her back together.

Nie Mingjue hesitated.

“I don’t think there’s any other choice,” he finally said, and Wen Ruohan let out a hacking cough that may have once been meant as a sardonic laugh. “The wars are ending. Sooner than people think – the other sects are basically crushed already. The Jiang lost their heart with the massacre, the Jin are in way over their heads, the Lan…”

The Lan had once been the Nie sect’s closest allies, and their main sect among the ones their father had counted as his friends. The more he once loved…

Best not to think about it.

“Without a war, he’ll turn on everyone else,” Nie Mingjue concluded. “Those of us here at home, yes, but not just us.He’ll kill everyone if that’s what it takes, or at least what he thinks it’ll take to get Jiwei back. His cultivation is so high now that I can’t catch up. I can’t stop him, even if I were willing to be a patricide, so that’s not the answer. We need a different approach.”

He nodded at Wen Ruohan – presumably, the different approach in question.

“What’s the array I’m going to be drawing meant to do?” Nie Huaisang asked, a concession and agreement, and his brother was going to explain, he could see it, except there was the sound of footsteps in the hall.

“Why is he here?” Wen Ruohan asked, his face growing pale. He’d brightened upon seeing Nie Mingjue, growing lively once more, a corpse coming back to life, but now he seemed weak once more – now he seemed afraid. He should be. “Why – he barely ever comes here anymore. Why is he here now?”

Bad luck, Nie Huisang supposed. Just plain bad luck.

They had a lot of that in their family.

“I’ll go distract him,” Nie Mingjue said, pulling off his cloak. “Huaisang, Ruohan – get to work.”

He was gone a moment later, before Nie Huaisang could stop him.

So instead, Nie Huaisang turned to look at the man in the cage.

“Ruohan?” he asked archly. “Really? For my brother to refer to someone so much older than him so intimately is most unlike him…I take it you’re on very good terms with each other, then?”

“Our cultivation styles are extremely compatible,” Wen Ruohan said. He looked more tired than anything else. “He’s come to visit me any number of times, but we only discovered it relatively recently. Under the circumstances, I thought it appropriate for him to call me by name… I will answer any question you like. He has already told me to be afraid of you.”

“He did?”

“He doesn’t know to be afraid,” Wen Ruohan corrected himself. “But I knew your mother, and I can tell from the way he speaks of you that you are often underestimated. I won’t make that mistake."

Nie Huaisang didn’t trust Wen Ruohan one bit. But he didn’t need to trust him to use him.

And they didn’t have time to waste. Not with Nie Mingjue winning them time to talk, trading his body and his pain for just a little bit longer. “Tell me what the array you want me to draw looks like.”

#mdzs #nie huaisang #nie mingjue #wen ruohan #sect leader nie #my fic #my fics #warnings in ao3 #dystopia

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neonblessing · 6 months

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⚠️ SPOILER ALERT! ⚠️ Click here to read Neon Blessing from the beginning!

“Look, you don’t have to give me a map. Just point me in the right direction.”

“Shiv, kid, I get it. You want revenge. But-”

“I don’t want revenge,” she said. She wasn’t certain if it was a lie.

“Then what do you want?”

“Answers.” Hell, she didn’t even know the finer points of what the two of them had stolen. The house had been full of valuable art, they’d passed a poorly-hidden wall safe on the way to the owner’s office, and they ignored it all in favor of the data drive that had sat atop a messy stack of papers. Ornarch hadn’t told them what was on there, just that it would go for a hundred thousand credits at a minimum, or a million from the right buyer. Most drives its size were just something convenient to hold, with the data itself stored on a chip a few nanometers thick. Whatever was on that drive had been complex enough that the whole damn drive was dedicated to memory. A sphinx glinted darkly on its surface, mirror finish set into matte black. There was something captivating about its sheer scale and the precision of its construction. Something a little sinister, too. Then he had shown up, and the rest of the night was a blurry nightmare of burning, screaming, and blood.

Kooler pursed his lips. “And once you have those answers, what are you going to do?”

“My job. Ornarch wants me to-”

Kooler’s eyes narrowed, and he tilted his head. “Isn’t your job breaking and entering? At least, I think that’s what you told me the first time we met. Forgive an old man’s memory for its failings, but I think I would have remembered hearing a teenager call themself an executioner.” He suddenly sounded very old, and very tired.

“Maybe I’ve changed. Why do you care?” It came out a little colder than she’d intended it to.

“Sorry, sorry. You’re right. None of my business.”

“So you won’t help me?”

“Staying neutral is how I stay alive. Everyone knows old Kooler keeps his mouth shut.”

“That’s a no?” Her heart sank. She’d known it was a long shot, but even still, Kooler was the closest thing she had to a lead.

Whatever he saw in her face gave him pause. “I… offered them ten thousand for the drive. I don’t even have half the hardware it would take to decrypt that… monster. I told them I wasn’t paying a credit more than that for a piece of software I couldn’t validate, no matter what rumors I’d heard. They took their business elsewhere. I don’t know where.”

“Rumors?”

“Have you been online since you stole it?” She hadn’t. “Half of the criminals in the Diluvian District are hunting after that sphinx drive. It’s anyone’s guess what’s on there, but Ebrelurge put a bounty out on it and then a few gang bosses joined the bidding war. As of this morning, the best offer is 1.6 million.”

Lord of birds. One point six fucking million?

He went on. “I don’t know where they went, but I know someone who might. Don’t go telling everyone I lent you a hand, but you’re- you’re a good kid. Just- hear them out when you see them. Don’t rush headlong into being a killer.”

“Yeah.”

Kooler pushed off the counter, sending his chair on a practiced arc towards a shelf of folders in one corner of the shop. He returned bearing a business card, a thin sheet of crisp white plastic stock with “Club RED – 1191-3962” embossed on it in brilliant crimson. The back side of the card was decorated with a staring eye in the same shade. “Kurtz–the owner of Club RED–knows me, and she’s got a panopt. Ask to see Odie. If it can’t help you, no one can.”

Shiv grinned. “Thanks, Kooler.”

“I’d say ‘any time,’ but really I’d rather not stick my neck out again.”

“With any luck, you won’t have to!”

The door squealed as she left.

First Page – Previous Page – Next Page

#9 #neon blessing #shiv #kooler

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umbrify · 7 months

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So @liloinkoink tagged me in a little game where I post about all my wips, so people can see them and ask questions about them. I realized that I uh. I have twenty different AU concepts (all made with my beloved friend @made-nondescript ), so I’m gonna pick a few:

Merfolk AU (fWhimmy): in which Jimmy, sheriff to a small coastal town, realizes there’s something— or, someone— living right near their shores. fWhimmy mer au where fWhip is the merperson, and they have to figure out how to make it work, despite… everything.

And… is he sure about this? Joel’s gonna laugh at him— Jimmy’s certain he is. He can’t even blame him, really. What a ridiculous thing to say: I found a rock at the rock beach and I think there was a guy in the water— yeah, right. But… it feels important. It feels important enough to try. He has to try.

“I think… I think I met someone in the ocean, two nights ago,” Jimmy murmurs.

This AU does have one posted work already— [We Will See Tomorrow], which is like a prologue of sorts!

Vamp AU (WRA siblings, future fWhimmy): One mistake is all it takes to change the course of your life forever, as fWhip and Gem find out the hard way. Roseblings become vampires the messy way, and find it quite hard to come to terms with.

“Well, hello there!” The man calls brightly, perhaps just a touch too loud for the occasion at hand. fWhip bites back a flinch at the sound.

“Uh— hi,” he calls back, “I take it you have what I’m looking for?”

The man chuckles slightly, an easy smile stretching across his scarred face, and fWhip raises an eyebrow. The man steps closer, positioning himself next to fWhip. “You’re after some really valuable stuff here, you know.” The man leans down slightly, looking into fWhip’s eyes. “You sure you’re willing to pay the price?”

(If he were more observant, perhaps fWhip would’ve noticed the way the man’s too-sharp teeth flashed in the sickly orange light— his first, and only, warning.)

This one has lots of art, which can be found under [#esmp vamp au]!

Space AU (fWhimmy— sorta): They’ve landed on this planet, and too late, they’ve realized they can’t leave it. How do you come to terms with the fact you’re definitely doomed? Jimmy and fWhip are co pilots of a spacecraft sent to check on a planet that sent out a strangled distress signal, and now they’ve got plenty of time to get acquainted before the end— if fWhip could stop making things worse, that is.

“Commander Jimmy, transmission regarding the emergency distress signal received from planet ANC-19.”

“This planet is lost, and so are we. Do not send a rescue mission. This planet is sick, it cannot be saved. I repeat, do not send anyone else here. They will die. There are no survivors. There is nothing of value left here.”

Snowpocalypse AU— or, hey what if Xornoth kidnapped Scott and used his ice powers to cause eternal winter? Wouldn’t that be fucked up? Scott’s absence is noticed very quickly by Gem, who drags fWhip and Jimmy to his house to check on him

“Oh—“ Gem turns the handle, the door swinging open slightly. “Scott! I’m coming in!!”

The lights are on as the step inside— fWhip knew they were, of course, but…

Well. He didn’t expect this.

The house is completely trashed— the coffee table is turned on its side, a mug of what might’ve been coffee or tea has shattered on the ground, the liquid partially stained into the rug. The pillows from the couch are strewn all around the room, and half the cabinets are thrown open, as if someone was looking for… something.

“…Scott?” fWhip calls, hesitantly.

Something is definitely wrong.

(More quick ones below the cut!)

fWhimmy Apocalypse AU (also featuring lots of fWhip & Pix): In which fWhip and Pix make the hardest trip of their lives to Jimmy’s house, with fWhip determined to see Jimmy again, against all odds. Apocalypse, but not in the zombie sense— think more like if sculk was a bit more fucked up. This one has all of its current writing posted [here!]

Superhero AU: You know the trope of “villain goes to superhero’s doorstep, super injured, and is like ‘I didn’t know where else to go’?” That, but it’s Jimmy going to fWhip, and fWhip is more of a vigilante than a hero, and Jimmy doesn’t necessarily… like… get redeemed. I remember this one had a long section in the notes about how Jimmy is a villain by choice, not because he was forced to be.

Antique shop AU: Nondescript and I went off for a While about this one, which created [this post]— basically, Pix runs an antique shop in a college town, and he hears about the lives of fWhip and Jimmy when they visit his shop

Android fWhip AU— or, hey what if the reason empires one fWhip survived the blast was because he wasn’t human at all, and nobody knew until Gem finds him in the wreckage? And then there’s the whole situation with— well, how do you just not notice that your brother is an android? This one had a whole scene where Gem takes a mangled fWhip over to Mezalea, as one of the last standing empires, and Joel tries to help them repair fWhip. I made [art] for this one, which is the only thing this AU has so far

There are a lot more, but I think that’ll do for now! I’d be happy to answer any questions about any of these, or any of my other writing :D !!

(As for tagging folks, I don’t wanna bother too many people, but if @blocksruinedme or @stitchthesewords wanna share any AU’s, go wild my friends!)

#umbrify talks #umbrify writes #thanks for the tag Lew I have spent Hours on this post #counted all my AU’s and I have Twenty. so.#I’m not cramming twenty AU’s into this post <3

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sonicfanj · 6 months

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As Rosy overgrown in vegetation has become a genre I enjoy, I'll take a moment to share some lore.

For those who don't remember, I prefer to perceive Amy as mediumistic rather than magical. For those unfamiliar with what I mean by mediumistic, in short I mean like a medium between the physical world and the supernatural world of spirits and gods. So, for my future works that is how I'll be handling Rosy. In addition to exploring Amy more as mediumistic, one of the things I would like to do is to explore negative relationships with nature beyond just Eggman's rampant industrialization without a care for the consequences of his actions.

In Rosy's case I will be looking at animal sacrifice. I won't go that deep, and explaining it here will be difficult since there are aspects of my future works that are not ready to share yet. That said, as Amy/Rosy is mediumistic, she is seen as valuable in either sacrifice to appease the gods or as a simple medium. More specifically though, she is a nature element medium. This means that unlike other animal people (I will be revealing a name for them later that is not Mobian) , Rosy can talk with more nature elementals than just the small animal friends from the games. What typically gives her away though is if any nature gods are present. Note, when I use gods I mean any such dietic entity from something on Dark Gaia and Solaris's time and space shaping level down to a meager god of a family heirloom shovel. This means that the effect on Rosy from the presence of a nature element god varies based on their strength. In all cases though when in the presence of any such deities, any non-medium around Rosy can hear their voice and moss, vines, and flowers will start growing from Rosy's body. If you saw this pic from @flowerqliphoth on Twitter (now X)

then this should give you a good idea of what she experiences. If a god is particularly powerful though a whole tree could very well grow from Rosy leaving her trapped in it until they either free her or leave, which is what I was trying illustrate above. And that's all for lore at the moment.

On the art itself, I wanted to experiment with a way to draw reasonably quickly that also prevents me from getting too detail oriented. The idea is to create a style that is messy on purpose so I can ignore my perfectionist tendencies. Even then, I used too thick of a brush and will need to experiment more with the coloring approach so it can be both messy but a tad cleaner. I hope everyone enjoyed this little lore dump and isn't afraid to ask any questions that you have. I'll be happy to answer!

Thank you!

#sonic the hedgehog #amy rose #rosy the rascal #character lore

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sweetiecutiedarling · 3 months

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Quick reminder to be very clear, because I write fanfic and have been reading fanfic for nearly two decades: You cannot sell fanfiction. You cannot bind it and sell the bound book. You cannot sell your fanfic ebook. You cannot sell your fanfic audiobook. You cannot sell someone else's fanfic. (Seriously why does this have to be said.) You cannot profit from fanfiction.

Fanfiction is only legally protected because money is not exchanged.

This means that you cannot buy fanfiction either. Most commonly- Don't buy a bound book or an ebook (re: ebooks - AO3 has a download feature and there are third-party apps to download off of websites like FanFiction.net). "I didn't know any better." Fair enough- you do now. "But I want a bound book." Learn to bind it. "But I can't." Hashtag me neither, bad hands gang unite- find someone to ask to do it just like the fanfic author wrote the book for you for free. "That's not feasible to me because xyz." I don't know what to tell you. You can't always get what you want. It's rough like that. You're contributing to the problem when you purchase fanfiction. Don't do it.

It is more than this though, though those of us who were here when Anne Rice was attacking fanfic authors viciously (or even shortly after) know how important this is. The culture of fanfiction, which is so valuable and unique that it has been studied by universities, is built upon the premise of free fanfic works. They are a gift, a personal project, a love letter to the original work, or to what the author believes the original work could have been. (Shout out to the Twilight community for universally hating their author more than any other fandom I've seen, so proud of us.) That's why we don't offer unsolicited critiques, we scroll on. It's why collaboration is so common. It's why we can leave up our old fics, or indeed post them when we know we are at the beginning to learning to write, without the same level of concern that we have to have when we officially publish our writing. There is something so pure about posting and sharing art because we love to do it, why would we risk that?

* By mixing creative work and profits, things get messy and the original intent of the art is often distorted. Example: The difference between Korra and Asami's relationship in the Legend of Korra tv series vs the comics has been cited as due to what could or couldn't get approved in the network.

Writing is an art form like any other and fanfiction is a lovely little bubble that remains relatively unharmed by capitalism. The second we start profiting off of it we run the risk of losing our fanfic websites, facing personal legal consequences, and destroying the incredible community we're in.

Stop. Selling. Fanfiction.

#fanfiction #fanfiction writer #don't profit off of fanfiction #capitalism #harry potter fanfiction #twilight fanfiction #atla fanfiction #don't buy fanfic #don't sell fanfic #fanfic should not be on etsy

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wannab-urs · 2 months

Text

Outtakes - multiples vol 2

AO3 | Kofi | Main Masterlist | The Spreadsheet Masterlist | vol 1

Howdy folks!

Here's all the fics on my spreadsheet featuring multiples - that's MMF, MFM, FMF, FFM, and more! All of these fics feature a reader character + 2 or more other characters, usually 2 pedro boys but not always!

Summaries and tags are, in most cases, provided by the author - please be sure to read them as some of these fics may have content you do not wish to read.

Updated 3/27/2024

lost, found

Dieter one shot by @sp00kymulderr

When Dieter is hurt by the words of someone else, he turns to his art to help him. What he really needs is you.

homophobia, unsupportive family, bad family relationships, drug use, alcohol use, implied poly relationship, sex mentions, angst angst angst. There is an ezra in this, whether he is our ezra or not is up to you. writer projecting their emotions on to their favourite character.

Run Rabbit

Joel/Reader/Tommy series by @justagalwhowrites

It was just over a year after the world ended that you were captured by Joel and Tommy Miller. They're harsh, they're cold and they're killers. But, as a nurse, you're a valuable person to have around and he's not the worst thing wandering the wasteland that was the United States. And there might be more to these men than meets the eye.

Dom Joel, Threesome - MFM, Mildly Dubious Consent, Attempted Sexual Assault, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Stockholm Syndrome, Brat Tamer Joel, Canon-Typical Violence, Dom/sub Undertones, Anal Sex

Cabuorir

Oberyn/Din/Reader series by ToricTailor (AO3)

You would have torn the heavens asunder to stop it.

Fix-It, That's Not How The Force Works (Star Wars), Get This Man A New Ship, Smut, Threesome - F/M/M, Reader sandwich, Force-Sensitive Reader, Polyamory, DVP, more

He Knows

Joel/Reader/Tommy one shot by @psychedelic-ink

Joel knows you have a little thing for his younger brother so decides to indulge you for your birthday.

gonna state this very clearly: joel gets cucked by tommy and watches, everyone is consenting and it's discussed beforehand, piv, dirty talk, possessive!joel, daddy kink, size kink, established relationship between joel and reader, jealousy, some brotherly rivalry, facial, mild degradation kink, creampie

On the Verge of a Usual Mistake

Lucien/Reader/Dieter one shot by @gasolinerainbowpuddles

You've been avoiding your exes Dieter Bravo and Lucien Flores all night at this event, but you're forced to come to terms with how things ended in both relationships when they seek to right their wrongs.

this is truly just porn with minimal plot (I'm so proud of myself lol), Dieter and Lucien are messy exes, threesome activities, Twister but with genitalia, Daddy and Papi kinks

#fic recs #the spreadsheet digest #fanfiction recommendations #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro fics #pedro pascal character fanfiction

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cozza-frenzy · 1 year

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Fanfic: A La Carte (Part 1: Appetizer)

It’s a big part of what makes us human; believing we have a soul that needs to be fed, too. So this one has been in the works for a little longer than the others! Not only has my Discord “job” been keeping me VERY busy, but I also wasn’t sure where to go with this, exactly... but after seeing a certain art post yesterday, I know now... and I also know it needs to be a 2-parter. Yep, this one’s LONG, folks. And it’s about food! I’d like to give my thanks once again to @chronicsheepdrawing for their wonderful designs and autistic character headcanons. This is going to be less angst, more fluff this time, so content warnings are a little more sparse! May we all experience moments of Autistic Joy like those found in this story. Happy Autism Acceptance Month! Part 3 of a series: Anything Not Saved A Perfect Moment

CONTENT WARNINGS: Body Dysphoria (Not Gender Related), Messy Eating, References to Sensory Deprivation, Mild Sensory Overload

So whose birthday do you think it is this time? Ah, yes, I suppose it DOES say “Happy Celebration To Whomever”, doesn’t it? It might not even BE a birthday. It might even be celebrating all of the incredibly productive work we’ve been doing! Gosh, imagine that! FINALLY some recognition for all those years of- …And you’re gone. Of course. No doubt you have more important things to do than talk to the likes of me. Honestly, I don’t even know WHY I bother - I swear, it’s almost like some sort of COMPULSION! Just rambling on, and on, and on, and… oh dear, and I’m even doing it when there’s nobody to listen… …Hm. Actually, come to think of it… I wonder if he got the memo… ? 427? Ah, Employee 427? Hello? …Stanley, it’s ME - open the door! Oh, there you are Stanley! I do hope I wasn’t interrupting anything; oh, you were waiting for-? Well you… you didn’t HAVE to, you do realize that, right?? You were really just going to sit in your office, pushing your buttons, until I just HAPPENED to call out to you? I mean for heaven’s sake, Stanley! Don’t you want to take the initiative for even ONCE in your career? It could result in you getting promoted! Or possibly- well, probably more than likely, fired. But aren’t some things worth the- …What do you MEAN you already got one?? I just BROUGHT you a- Oh. Oh Stanley, you-you didn’t! You didn’t… heeheehee, really!? Well come onl, come on, get inside, quick! Shh! SHH!! Hahahahaaa, I can’t believe it!! I can’t BELIEVE you-what? NO, I’m not going to TELL! Gosh, what do you take me for, Stanley?? I mean you’re one of our most valuable employees; who ELSE could push buttons like you can, I ask you?? No-one, that’s who! Though I must say, haha, I never would have pegged YOU as the secret Bad Boy of the office! Mister Employee Four-Twenty-Seven, pilfering an extra slice of cake from under everyone’s collective nose! They’ll never suspect a thing! Hahaha…! …Oh come now, stop that, we’re not going to get CAUGHT. And even if we did, it’s probably my fault, anyway. Ugh, I must be a truly terrible influence on you, Stanley, I really must… it’s that horrid little rebellious streak in me. Probably why I never seem to get anywhere in this bloody office… Ah? Oh thank you Stanley, I’d love some coffee. Little more sugar if you could- yes, and- oh, you remembered! Ah yes, that’s lovely, I… oh, um, are you sure? I know how much everyone looks forward to our scheduled Standard Issue Office Sheet Cake, but you took that fair and - oh GO ON then, you absolute rascal! Since you’ve already cut it and everything… heh. Happy Whatever-It-Is, Stanley… —————————————————————————————————- This is a story about a man named Stanley. Today - if there even is such a thing as a ‘day’ any more - Stanley is in the Employee Break Room. A place he’d stopped by countless times previously, just to admire; the gray walls and dark blue carpet as comforting and familiar as they ever were. The couch; just as soft, yet firm enough to encourage the good sitting posture that was vital for employees. The whole place still smelling vaguely of printer ink, paper, and coffee. It was quiet now, given that all of Stanley’s coworkers had mysteriously vanished, leaving him alone in the office. Or, well… not quite alone. Not any more. Next to Stanley, on the couch, sat his Narrator. Some time ago, they’d had a fateful - and completely intentional, absolutely no mistakes were made - encounter in The Memory Zone. And since then, he’d decided to stick around. It just felt far more comfortable than unloading his model; it gave him something to anchor himself to, something that reminded him he was real. And all things considered, it wasn’t that bad. Even if he was still slowly learning to tolerate his… eh… he twisted the words around in his head, tossing aside epithets like “silly-looking” and “bizarre”, completely ignoring “ugly” and “monstrous” for a change, before finally settling on something. Unusual form. Yes, that will do for now… Ahem. Anyway; overall, The Narrator was, at least, willing to tolerate the unusual situation he’d found himself in. Since then, he’d found there was one thing more important to him than how he felt… and that was how Stanley, his protagonist, felt. After all; without him and without his co-operation, there was no story. There was no Stanley Parable without Stanley. So of course, as his Narrator, he couldn’t have him become lonely or depressed. Especially since the last time the Parable ended, The Narrator could have sworn they’d finally found freedom… They’d finally stepped outside; onto real grass and real dirt! Surrounded by real trees, under a real sky! On his very life, he could have sworn that they had... and yet… like a dream, or perhaps a burning memory, curling up in the flames like a discarded photograph, they’d found themselves back here. In the office. Right where they’d started. Perhaps they’d made a mistake somewhere… Stanley moved his hands, and the Narrator glanced downward. No, wait, he wasn’t saying anything; he was just fidgeting. And, he noticed, Stanley’s head had been resting against his shoulder - but it seemed from his half-laying, half-sprawled position on the couch, he’d slid down until his ear now rested against the Narrator’s stomach. Something that - the Narrator now realized - had probably been intentional. It was a comfort thing for him, apparently. Something about the liquid sloshing around in there helped him calm down. And perhaps it was the weight of Stanley’s head, or the soft sound of his breathing, or the gentle touch of his button-calloused fingers, but the Narrator couldn’t help but feel calmer too. It made things seem more… alright. Not entirely alright; not just after what they’d both been through, but more alright in himself. Like maybe he didn’t hate this body quite as much as he had previously. It certainly seemed to help keep his thoughts from going to much darker places... Stanley moved his hands again. The Narrator heaved a huge sigh. “Stanley, if you’re going to say something, just say it. I know you were disappointed with how our story ended, but we can’t try again if we just sit here and stew in our own failure… slow-cooking in regret… a crock-pot of misery and hopelessness, with a side dish of pointlessness, and a bitter-sweet ‘we’re never going to get out but at least we’re still here’ sauce… ” The Narrator’s words caught in his throat, and he stopped himself before he choked on them. No, no, he wasn’t going to let this get to him! This was his story! Nobody could tell him how to feel about it except him! He wasn’t about to backslide into utterly crushing despair… No, not him… definitely not… <Do you miss being human?> “W-what??” The Narrator boggled - he’d retired, undefeated, from Professional Boggling, but still boggled casually when the mood called for it - and looked down at Stanley. “You… “ He wondered for a moment how Stanley had remembered, but… of course he had. Back in the Memory Zone, they’d talked for hours, perhaps even longer, and of course sooner or later, everything had to come out. The fact that The Narrator still had memories of being human, once. Memories of having a real face, with makeup he’d painstakingly applied with real hands, that in turn had real nails, painted in office-appropriate colors. And how he couldn’t remember what he looked like, or what his name had been, but- “...You already know how I feel about that, Stanley. I can’t go back.” Somehow, the thought of returning to that time terrified him. Slowly, something had been coming together, at the core of the shattered funhouse mirror that made up his memories. Something that stared into his soul with a white-hot, searing sense of wrongness. Something that gave him no choice but to look away. I can’t go back to what I was before. I can’t. <I know that.> Stanley signed; taking a moment to sit up, he paused to think about what he was going to sign, as he often did. <But you really don’t miss anything?> “Stanley-” The Narrator started with a warning tone. Stanley certainly liked to push buttons; and apparently not only did he not know when to quit, but his obsession with button-pushing also applied to pushing other people’s buttons. But The Narrator couldn’t deny; the look on Stanley’s face held no malice. It was the same way he looked at The Narrator’s hands, when he ran his thumb over the line of stitches. The same way he watched the liquid inside his transparent globe of a belly slosh back and forth, and the way the light reflected off his plastic eyes. He remembered when Stanley had noticed his tie resembled The Stanley Parable Adventure Line™, and the biggest smile had crossed his face as his fingers traced its shape and felt its silky texture, wide eyes drinking in its bright color. Then they’d both just sat for a while, and reminisced about how they’d teamed up for the mis-adventure dubbed The Confusion Ending... It was pure, simple curiosity on Stanley’s face. The Narrator felt his cheeks flush involuntarily; it seemed he was still inexplicably fascinated by everything about him. And that, apparently, included what was inside his head. <I was just asking because…> Stanley hesitated again, looking away nervously. <Because you were talking about food. Do you miss it?> “Talking about-? Wait, was I - oh! Oh, Stanley… ” The Narrator laughed a little; “That was a metaphor! I wasn’t literally talking about those things, I was simply describing-” Stanley shook his head vigorously; waving his hands. Oh no. He wanted him to stop talking. The Narrator’s words had apparently got him thinking, and now he was practically buzzing with questions, a torrent of them starting to spill out like angry hornets from a disturbed nest. <Do you ever get hungry?> “I, ah… ” Did he feel hungry? He’d never really thought about it, but come to think of it… no. He’d never felt hungry; not once since he’d woken up like this. No urge to eat meant he’d never even tried to, though he had no reason to believe he couldn’t… and what was equally strange was he’d had no urge to drink, either. Or sleep! Or - well, this one was convenient, at least - use the facilities. And yet somehow it had never crossed his mind that this was unusual at all-? The Narrator wondered for a moment if it was simply the way his body was now; transformed from a mere human into some kind of immortal and ever-moving construct, perhaps by a Higher Power with a twisted sense of humor. But then… that couldn’t be true, could it? Because now that he thought about it; not only had he never felt hungry or thirsty since The Parable began, but neither had Stanley. But Stanley - dear, simple Stanley - seemingly hadn’t noticed anything was amiss. And he was still persisting in asking questions. <Do you still eat?> “I don’t have to.” The Narrator said curtly, prickling with defensiveness. “Why is this so important to you, exactly?” Dodging the Narrator’s question like a protagonist from a much more exciting genre would dodge bullets, Stanley was already tilting his head quizzically, locking and loading yet another question. He squinted, like he was trying to make sense of something. The Narrator squinted back. The questions were already annoying him, but there was very little that irritated him more than being ignored, and he was about to launch into a lengthy rant when Stanley pointed to his face and asked... <Where is your mouth?> “What!?” The Narrator huffed, immediately caught off-guard by such a ridiculous question. “I mean, really?? Goodness, Stanley, I can’t believe you have to ask that! Obviously it’s right here!” He pointed to his mouth. Stanley just looked hopelessly confused. “Ugh, don’t look at me like that... you look like a puppy with a headache.” The Narrator sighed, rolling his eyes a little as he relented. Evidently, this wasn’t going to stop unless he did something to stop it. “Alright, just give me a moment. This should put an end to all these bloody questions… ” He reached into his memories. No, not all of them were smashed, broken, piled up in ways that only sort-of made sense like some kind of junk yard - oh no, not at all! Events, people, faces, things that had happened when he’d used to be human, anything that was complicated was a mess… but memories of things? Ah yes, things! Things were simple. He could handle things; hell, he’d even fabricated an entire Memory Zone out of things! Things were great! In fact, things were fantastic. There was no way things could possibly end badly. So of course, taking a memory of a simple chocolate chip cookie and manifesting it was hardly any effort at all; Stanley jumped a little as it appeared in The Narrator’s hand with a small ‘pop’. “Since you’re so utterly fixated on this for some reason, Stanley - allow me to demonstrate.” He took a bite. ————————————————————————————————— Meanwhile; a man named Stanley wasn’t entirely sure what he’d just seen happen. Nor was he entirely sure what he was still seeing, right in front of him, right now, as the Narrator took a second bite of the cookie he’d just created out of seemingly nothing, with the mouth he didn’t seem to have. But he was chewing all the same, complete with crunching sounds as if he had teeth… and there was a distant look crossing his face for a moment, as if he was taking a moment to taste it… “Mm, that is… my, that is actually rather good… ” said The Narrator, his voice slightly muffled from a mouthful of cookie. “In fact it's very good - I think perhaps I’ve outdone myself!” He brought the dessert level with his face, and - again! - a big bite suddenly disappeared. Stanley couldn’t help but stare. Not just because of how unreal it looked, but because The Narrator looked… happy. Very happy. His whole body seemed to have relaxed; and as he took another bite he actually made small, happy sounds, one of his glove-hands touching his own cheek as he rocked back and forth on his heels. “Mm… mm! Oh, I wasn’t expecting… Stanley, I know I made this, but this really tastes home-made! It’s simply del-i-cious!“ - munch, crunch - “So crisp! And chewy in the center… dark chocolate chips, a little sprinkle of salt… my gosh, it’s divine!” Stanley watched as The Narrator… licked the chocolate off his fingers? Somehow he knew that was what he was doing, even though he didn’t see a tongue. Trying to make sense of it, as the man pulled a napkin from his pocket and cleaned himself off, was starting to make his head feel weird… “Oh, Stanley! You simply must try one!” The Narrator said eagerly, offering a cookie with his other hand - he actually laughed a little, the experience having made him almost giddy. “Go ahead, it’s not going to bite you!” Stanley hadn’t even heard a ‘pop’ this time and yet here it was - another cookie, being held between glove-fingers, right under his nose. He looked at it for a moment; just like the other cookie, it had come from seemingly nowhere. But the smell of vanilla and brown sugar was real enough to make his mouth water, and the chocolate chips almost seemed to glisten under the office lights, like they were just slightly melted… “Oh come on, Stanley! I make an entire Memory Zone for you to walk through, and a bloody cookie is what makes you stand there, mouth agape??” The Narrator snapped, irritated by Stanley’s continued hesitation. “This is quite the treat, I’ll have you know!” Stanley carefully reached out his hand. “Don’t make me change my mind, because I will scoff the entire thing if you don’t.” Stanley snatched the cookie like it might run away from him and took a big bite. Immediately, Stanley exhaled through his nose; yes, now he understood. Now he felt that tingling from his very core; that rapidly rising tide of joy! The cookie was warm, and sweet, and its perfectly crispy edge practically melted on his tongue like buttery cotton candy. The crunchy exterior and soft, chewy interior were a symphony of textures. The chunky, bittersweet dark chocolate was a rich, heavy bass. And popping here and there to balance out all that sugar were little crystalline flakes of sea salt, that came in a flash and vanished like falling stars… He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a cookie this good. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a cookie. And now he desperately wanted a glass of milk to go with it. Stanley gestured frantically at the Narrator, hardly able to form a coherent sign. “A glass of-? Oh of course, what was I thinking!” Another pop, and there was suddenly a glass of milk in his hand. Suppressing his excitement for just a moment, Stanley steeled his nerves and sipped, letting the ice-cold drink contrast the gentle heat... and sighed. It tasted like how a warm blanket felt in the night air; his whole body wrapped in a comforting, nostalgic hug, made all the sweeter from the chill that lurked just on the edge. “Stanley, are you alright? You’re not allergic to something, are you?” The Narrator asked, squinting at him. “You’ve got a funny look on your face… ” Stanley couldn’t answer. Stanley was frozen in place. Stanley felt like he might cry. Stanley was unbelievably, overwhelmingly happy. Stanley desperately wanted to stim; to flap his hands out of sheer, overwhelming excitement, wrap his arms around himself and rock back and forth as his heart fluttered in his chest… but obviously he couldn’t, not with a cookie in one hand and a drink in the other. Then a particularly mischievous thought crept its way into his head, very softly, on tiptoe… and Stanley bit his lip. He shouldn’t. He really, really shouldn’t. He did. Stanley tore into the cookie like he was starving to the point of near-death; alternating between it and the milk in desperate gulps, crumbs falling between his fingers. He devoured the snack without any regard for table manners, office etiquette, or anything vaguely resembling human dignity - and he relished every single precious, visceral second of it, ending his frenzy with an utterly contented sigh. He stimmed gently, touching the backs of his own hands, enjoying the moment... “You, ah, must have been… hungry.” Then Stanley turned towards The Narrator. The smile fell from his face. And it may as well have shattered into pieces on the floor, from what he saw. The Narrator looked… pale. Almost like he was about to faint. Almost like he was expecting to get the worst news he’d ever heard in his life; news which would break his heart in such a way it would never heal right, and he’d carry this moment’s phantom pain for a lifetime. And Stanley, somehow, could tell clear as day what he was thinking… much like The Narrator seemed able to read his thoughts sometimes… In his obsessive quest to get his perfect ending, had he let his protagonist starve? <NO, NO!> Stanley shook his head, waving his hands in protest. He hadn’t been hungry, not at all! He knew he hadn’t been hungry in a long time and that had never really bothered him! After all, as The Narrator’s very important and heroic Protagonist, he’d had no shortage of very important and heroic things to do! But… Looking at the remaining chocolate stains on his shaking hands, he couldn’t deny, something else inside him had been absolutely ravenous. Something that had been so, so hungry, and was so, so thankful to be finally fed. With that hunger finally sated, there was a warm feeling curled up cozily inside him, like a purring cat on his chest. …It was almost like… “Like when you put your hand on me for the first time.” mused The Narrator, distantly. “You’re not hungry, but you haven’t tasted anything in hell knows how long… ” <And you haven’t, either!>, signed Stanley, a desperate, sympathetic look on his face. <Didn’t you ever make anything for yourself??> “I suppose the thought just never really occurred to me…” The Narrator sighed dejectedly, his face still a picture of regret. “I mean, I’m honestly surprised I even remembered how food tasted at all, but… knowing you were deprived of that joy… ?” Uh-oh. Stanley knew that look on The Narrator’s face; he only got that look when he was about to have another ‘crisis’, remembering or realizing something awful that sent him into a spiral of self-loathing and hopelessness. Sometimes he’d even ‘unload his model’ and disappear for what felt like hours, leaving nothing but the distant sound of sobbing; or worse, a horrible, yawning chasm of silence. Stanley reached out, gently taking the Narrator’s glove-hand, rubbing the back of it with his thumb; just like The Narrator did for him, when he felt overwhelmed. He just wanted him to be alright, please just be alright, but those big plastic eyes still looked so sad... “Oh, Stanley… you didn’t deserve that… ” The Narrator closed his eyes. He wasn’t crying, but Stanley listened to the sound and speed of his breathing, trying to gauge his mood, his emotions, trying to somehow figure this out and make him be alright again. Somehow, he had to try to take The Narrator’s focus off the idea that he’d hurt him… he needed to… he needed to sign something to snap him out of it, maybe? It was worth trying, if it meant even a slim chance of breaking the terrible, slowly rising tension. <Can you make more?> Not to mention the anxiety he himself was struggling to keep at bay; that maybe this time would be the time The Narrator wouldn’t come back. That he’d be alone again. And that it would be his fault somehow. “I… wait, what was that? Didn’t quite catch-” Stanley smiled excitedly; The Narrator had his eyes open again - and what was more, the stars had somehow aligned and fate had weaved its threads to grant him an idea! <You can make anything! You made the Memory Zone! You made the Baby Game! You even made me fly through space! So different kinds of food should be easy, right?> A cheeky little smirk crossed his face. <...Or is it too hard for you?> “WHAT?? Too HARD?!” The Narrator huffed, getting so riled up it almost looked like the liquid in his stomach was bubbling, boiling like a kettle. “Too hard indeed! What, do you think a vast, sprawling imagination like mine is restricted to mere snacks? That the depths of my wildest dreams contain no more than simple, infantile finger foods!?” Stanley relaxed his shoulders. Ah, much better; all he’d had to do was push the right buttons, and there was no more cringing, shrinking, or apologizing! The loud, proud, pompous voice that he adored was back! Though he’d have hardly called a chocolate chip cookie like that one ‘infantile’... “I mean after all, this is my story! And even if it is irrelevant to our ultimate goal, well, isn’t the journey just as important as the end? Is it not important to let our heroes breathe? To let them laugh, and love, and feast??” Stanley watched excitedly; The Narrator was gesturing energetically, pointing his finger in the air. He’d learned from their time together - that is, actually together, now that he could actually see him - that meant he was on a roll. And that always led somewhere interesting. “Well we shall feast! In fact, we shall have a veritable buffet!” Stanley snorted and bit his lip as he tried to keep a straight face; he’d pronounced it ‘boo-fay’, with a great amount of dramatic flair, which tickled him terribly. But he allowed him to continue… “Yes, a collection of culinary concoctions and creative cuisine! I see it now… there’ll be appetizers that delight and entrance! Entrees and side dishes, rivaling the banquets of kings! Desserts and patisserie to make you weep sugary tears of joy! Cocktails! A cheese course! Little things on sticks! Yes, yes, it’ll be fantastic! Stupendous, even! In fact, it’ll be-” …Until Stanley bravely put one hand on The Narrator’s shoulder, his gaze suddenly steely and determined. This could be his only chance he’d ever get for The Narrator to go along with an idea of his in its entirety. If he was going to do this, he was going to do it now - and he did, signing with his free hand. “A picnic in the Memory Zone… ?”

#The Stanley Parable #TSP Narrator #TSP Stanley #Stannarrator #TSP #TSPUD #Stanley/Narrator #Fanfic #Employee 436 #NO BETA WE DIE LIKE I DIED OVER HOW CUTE THESE TWO ARE

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rainstormcolors · 6 months

Note

First of all I’d like to say that I absolutely love your analysis posts, even when your perspective differs from mine, and your art, as someone relatively new to the fandom I check your blog anytime I can

For the character ask thing, 8, 17, 37, 48 for Seto if you don’t mind <3

This was sweet to read. I feel examining media is a bit like examining a cut diamond, where our own unique point of view will alight different facets of that gem and it’s bright and special for each of us. And seeing others discuss their feelings in good faith has been good for me for sure.

Thank you for the ask! I hope you have a kind day today.

8. Unpopular opinion about them

I feel like fandom opinions and readings of canon are more in the category of polarizing or not-polarizing a lot of the time. I do think other views are fair.

I think it’s on the relatively unpopular side among Kaiba fans that I feel Seto never trusted Pegasus. I don’t even mean from the point of watching Pegasus making a show of humiliating Keith – I think from the time when Seto first Pegasus, Seto was already rigidly mistrustful of adults and people and he had his walls up. It was a matter of business from the get-go to me.

This is maybe less unpopular but still debated it seems, but I do not believe Seto ever felt Gozaburo was going to be a loving parent towards him. Seto went into it like it was a kind of business deal and educational mentor/student deal, and even that it was a kind of Faustian deal. In general, I don’t like the idea that Seto was being selflessly perfect and a perfect little victim when he approached Gozaburo. That does not make Gozaburo’s treatment of the two brothers acceptable at all, and it does not make Gozaburo exploiting Seto acceptable at all. Hurt people can make bad choices and that does not make the harm that comes to them any less real or bad.

This last bit is more personal and less related to actual canon but I want to try clearing the air. I do know I need to let my guard down again with people having fair critique of the early manga. I have some ongoing lingering fear over things in the past and fandom shunning of the past. A certain post that had been aimed at me actually outright triggered a flashback for me some time ago, and also realizing I threw important things away without thinking when all of that was happening... I feel weak that it affected me that badly. I know the manga has its issues -- it really does -- and those issues can be discussed. Good faith discussions are valuable. And it’s not black-and-white. A storybeat can have merits and issues at the same time. Messy complicated stories can even reflect messy complicated life, and no one will have opinions that always align because we’re all unique. I just at times fall into remembering those “people who get pretentious about the early manga deserve to get made fun of,” “maybe if i was a 12 year old boy i'd like manga kaiba isn't it funny how he has no redeeming qualities,” “it’s fucked up and disgusting how people excuse the mindcrush coma,” etc comments, people spreading made-up rumors that I used ableist language I never used, etc, and I need to get over it. (I was more vulnerable to this sort of shunning for outside reasons to begin with, and even here it’s not black and white.) But I do feel I should give explanations for my defensiveness, because it’s not fair to people who do want to discuss the story’s flaws in good faith.

In general, I’m including that previous paragraph because unpopular opinions about a piece of media shouldn’t lead to a person being shunned from a fandom space, and I want to invite good faith discussions and make it clear it’s okay to agree to disagree. We have different lives and are different people.

17. Quotes, songs, poems, etc. that I associate with them

The song The Last Day by Moby is a go-to for both Seto Kaiba and Noa Kaiba. The song Dark Star by Moby also feels Seto-ish to me.

For a poem, The Committee Weighs In by Andrea Cohen.

Some quotes:

“Why does tragedy exist? Because you are full of rage. Why are you full of rage? Because you are full of grief.” Euripides, Grief Lessons: Four Plays by Euripides, tr. Anne Carson

“No greater desire exists than a wounded person’s desire for another wound.” Georges Battaille, Ecstasy, from Guilty, tr. Bruce Boone

“I burn, I freeze; I am never warm. I am rigid; I forgot softness because it did not serve me.” Catherynne M Valente, from Deathless

“I wasted so many years being miserable because I assumed that was the only way to be.” Bojack Horseman, from Bojack Horseman

37. What they really think about themselves

Seto’s mind and heart are cloudy and tangled places in canon. I think he wants to see himself as strong and powerful and capable and that he does not feel lonely and that he does not need friends or warmth or love. He’s very defensive to cling to those ideas about himself. He holds himself to a standard he cannot reach. I think he has very complicated feelings about Gozaburo he can’t examine closely – it was easiest to ignore those feelings after Gozaburo’s death at first and then to realize how much he hated Gozaburo and to focus on that. The complications of these feelings leached out regardless. That Seto is lonely and feels his weakness leaches out regardless. If Seto himself answered this question, I think he’d write down lies he tells himself are true. I also think he does know on some level that something is wrong here and that he needs to change. He is trying to save himself but he's very clumsy at it. He does reach out to others at times but he does so in self-sabotaging ways.

48. Scariest moment of their life

I think Seto separates himself from his emotions quite a lot and he has forms of alexithymia. As such, a lot of the times I don’t know that he can properly register that he’s scared. His brain often transforms that emotion into other emotions or denies it and goes blank. Two examples where he wasn’t able to fight back that emotion of fear are at Duelist Kingdom when he realizes he’s going to lose the duel to Atem and that no one will save Mokuba and then in DSoD after Yugi completes the empty husk of the Millennium Puzzle and Atem does not return. His brain can’t fight the emotion of fear in those moments and they shatter his heart and he becomes desperate. Self-loathing and loneliness and love and failure and weakness colliding inside him. Both of those instances are about Seto trying to reach out to someone from a sincere place and perhaps that’s also part of why he couldn’t be anything other than achingly frightened in those moments.

#seto kaiba

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angelosearch · 3 months

Text

A quick little meditation I wrote on why it is so painful to update my resume. I may delete this later because I might turn it into a larger personal essay piece.

It is 10:35 am and I am sitting in front of my laptop’s brutally large screen, fixating on the thin line the blinks on the document in front of me.

The document is my résumé, circa December 2021.

That was two years. That was one hospital stay, three intensive outpatient programs, and a two month stay in residential care ago. That was two jobs ago. The person reflected in this document represents an ideal self that I no longer aspire to embody: A girl, reeling from the reckoning of her CPTSD, hanging on the vestiges of a career that constantly reminded her of her flaws and insignificance.

And in that torrent of criticism and mistreatment, she felt at home. Her jobs became her family. If she could just be enough, then they would see her, then they would understand that she shouldn’t have to push herself to the brink of mania to earn their love. But even when they did try to claim she was talented, she twisted the words into lies and duties. This was the bare minimum. This is what she had to do. She was not worthy of real admiration.

Yet, she constantly kept trying to outrun one family to try to find one that would treat her differently, somehow without altering the contract of her contact. This document is a map of that attempt of escape, littered with sparkling phrases like “proficient in project management” and “developed effective marketing strategy.” Do any of these phrases truly fit what she has done? Is anything she has ever accomplished impressive in any way?

“Has anyone ever believed in you in your entire life?” One boss once asked her.

The question from the democratic ex-mayoral candidate turned marketing director caused her to spin out.

If they have, I’ve never recognized it—for all words in a language that you do not speak sound like gibberish the first time you hear them.

This man made her feel as though he believed in her, and she said as much on one autumn morning in the lobby of a hotel in Phoenix, Arizona where they had just pulled off a successful presentation as exhibitors at a conference.

But she required too much patience and too much medical leave when her illness reached its peak. He fired her on the phone while a messy medication transition left her unable to move for several days. He did so subtly that she had no idea she had lost her job, her purpose, until human resources called and explained how to return her computer.

That’s the last entry on the résumé.

I am changing this document to capture a version of myself who belongs in an Art Therapy graduate program. It reads like an obituary for a woman who knew nothing of setting boundaries or connecting with her inner child.

If she is not dead, I’d like to kill her.

But how can I shape this disparate smattering of “wear a lot of hats” skills into something that resembles the creativity, compassion, and emotional intelligence required of an Art Therapist?

Résumé and resume are such similar words in the English language that the modern spelling of the former word has dropped it’s accents to be more easily written online. To resume is to pick up after a pause—but I have always been told negative space in your work history is unacceptable.

But despite that, I am resuming. This isn’t even my first period of resume.

It’s funny how those gaps on your résumé are seen as something negative. I’ve learned more, and more valuable, things in the times between my jobs than I ever did in them. I cannot explain it in bullet points or with stop and end dates, but I do have experience with creativity and compassion and emotional intelligence. I’ve sat on a couch instead of an office chair and I’ve grabbed tissues instead of leaflets. I talked a woman, frightened and in chronic pain, through her first few days of residential care. I’ve been told my capacity for vulnerability makes space for others.

Can I list the applause I got from my peers as I left the treatment center as professional recognition?

No. We all must come to our places of work as unbroken things who swear their lives to the job. We get paid to lie about not just being there to be paid. The only true passion you must clock in for is the passion to stay alive.

I hope that the world of Art Therapy is different, but upfront I must pretend that I have an acceptable amount of trauma and valuable work experiences. It’s makeup over a scar on my neck that looks like a hickey—an undeniable part of me too easily misunderstood to be revealed at the offset.

The true contents of what may make me good at my job may never be revealed to my colleagues, peers, or clients, and certainly will not be quantified on this document.

And so I move sections around on my resume like puzzle pieces and hope it matches the picture on the box.

#personal #extremely personal #art therapy #journaling #personal essay #needs editing but there are some lines I like #kinda vent #kinda rant #more than you ever wanted to know about me probably

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puhpandas · 6 months

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YOOOOOOO I LOVE YOUR ART DJDLM BE LDLDKALCZKSFCJWL

Ahem, sorry. Do you have any tips for drawing for us unfortunately unskilled folks?

LOL thank you so much!!!

and really my only advice is to not get caught up in artstyle crisis and stuff like that. just by drawing you're making art that's yours and no matter how much you want that other person's artstyle you shouldn't try to recreate it. adopting parts of peoples art you like is natural and literally recommended so that's fine. I do it too. but like especially when you're unsure of your art youll look at art you love and wish it was how yours looked and try to copy it. that never ends well and you might as well not do it in the first place

having inspiration is such a huge deal for motivation. not only so you can pump drawings out quicker or something but it just helps you draw and WANT to. you'll have more fun if you have a little collection of drawings you like that just make you feel ready to tackle another drawing

colors can do so much for art. studying other peoples colors or learning RGB (red green blue) can help you out. something I've noticed is that art can look better if you have two main colors and all the other colors compliment one of the hues somehow

this is how I learned but maybe try studying other peoples art. doing that has helped me improve so much as an artist (and also in every other art medium I've tried) and it really can make your progress skyrocket. it might just be the way I learn though so take this with a grain of salt

practice really does matter. just doing a few studies of anatomy or hands or whatever can really really help you out. trying new poses you haven't done before or just polishing the poses you do know can help you get a better understanding of drawing bodies

try to be looser with drawing. this will come when you become more comfortable and have more muscle memory with art but drawing looser can make your art look like it has more movement. messy can sometimes be better

finding your dream brush if you're drawing digitally can really change things immensely. seriously. finding a brush you enjoy using can make or break a drawing session and i mean it. like I use trying a new brush as a way to fix things if I'm drawing and having trouble and it always works. just mess around and find one you like and it can help you a ton

just keep trying and dont give up. I know its corny but this is some real advice I'm about to say. there isnt really a day where art will just click for you and make sense but someday you'll get to a point where you're happy and content with where you are and truly it's only up from there. when you're an artist a lot of artists will mention a 'zone' they enter when they draw/write/etc. this zone is a result of everything you've learned and all the experience you have coming together subconsciously at once while you draw. when you arent in that zone everything will seem more intimidating. but what I mean is that zone will only exist if you keep trying and practicing and experimenting.

final piece of advice is dont stress. if you enjoy art no matter what it looks like it's more important that you're having fun. have fun WHILE you improve. dont be miserable and only think "oh once I get good I'll be having fun". there truly is great experience from when you're in the learning stage and it's great to love it as it's happening and love it when you improve later too

and for the internet posting artists: dont let likes or comments or whatever determine how valuable you see your art as. even if you dont get the attention or love you want keep in mind theres ALWAYS someone out there who will appreciate it. and I'm not just saying that either

#ive been drawing since 2018 #like drawing seriously #i only really even became happy and content with my art and my artstyle this year no joke #just keep trying and enjoy it while you do it and its only up from here #im so glad i kept trying and didnt give up on things like art or writing because they truly are things i love to do #good luck man =)#💜💜#pandas.txt #pandas asks #long post #pandas talks

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divinesouldariax · 9 months

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hey there, I'm having a shit day too so you're not alone in that

For the asks, 18 :)

much love, hope you'll feel better soon <33

Hey <3 I'm sorry you're also having a shit time, I hope it gets better for you, too!

18. What’s one of your favorite lines you’ve written in a fic?

Listen. I know this says "one". Consider, however, I'm my own biggest fan and just picking one is impossible. In no particular order...

From chapter 24 of The Path We Walk, this whole scene, but that was too long to paste in so I'll just share this line:

“Yes, I survived the Nameless Ones, My’ratta, being taken captive by the Iron Authority, and a curse from a Betrayer God, only to drown in a bathtub,” Dorian said solemnly. “A fitting end, really. Just about as dignified as I would expect from myself.”

From chapter 5 of pick up the glass:

Their exhausted mind is half delirious and they get a little poetic. They're gilding Ashton, taking someone already beautiful and valuable and repairing them when they break with gold , with something precious. When Milo can't find any cracks left to fill, they drag over a chair and kneel in it next to Ashton's head, stroke one finger along the wide vein of gold running diagonally across their forehead. "Never really thought much about art until you came along," they whisper. "Now look at me. I think you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever worked on.”

From chapter 1 of the days may be long:

This kind of messy, clumsy, earnest love wasn’t something written about in books or in the songs of the bards that Dorian had seen perform when he was younger. Nobody had told him about the way that nearly dying felt cold, or that you could love a person who came from a different world without needing to understand the way they worked, or that a friend’s grief could hurt worse than a knife in your back. Being an adventurer probably was about killing dragons and casting spells and great romances sometimes. It was also about shivering by the side of the road and ruining clothes with blood and spilling mugs of overly-sweet tea and paying too much for a single room in an inn because of a desperate need for some safety and comfort. Dorian wouldn’t exchange this for the grandiosity of storybook adventure. Not for anything. Not for the world.

From Between Heartbeats:

The pounding crackles in the back of Imogen's head felt like dull lightning and thunder, but she knew it was just the beating of her own heart. It kept going, traitorous, quick quick quick, each beat feeling like they were stealing the ones that Laudna's slow heart wasn't taking.

From some flare out:

Some days, Fearne wanted nothing more than to drag all of the people she loved back to the Feywild with her, weave their spirits into the fabric of that world and keep them with her forever. Some days, she almost convinced herself that they would let her.

And finally, returning to Path, the only line that actually made me burst into tears upon writing because it hit a little too close to home:

The picnic, like all picnics with friends you were about to lose, ended much too soon.

#ask games #my writing #thank you for the ask <3 this was a really nice distraction #i apologize for making the answer SO long. i genuinely couldn't pick just one of these

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whentherewerebicycles · 1 year

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Hey, I hope you’re having a lovely day!

After seeing your mention of what you’re reading in the tags of a recent post, I’m wondering if you have any recommendations for books about parenting/pregnancy/motherhood, etc. My husband and I are probably going to start trying for a baby in the next couple years, and I want to get a head start on some reading. I think we have similar values and I’m not shy about reading dense texts, so I’d love to know what’s on your reading list!

yes i'm happy to make some recommendations... with the huge caveat that i'm not a parent yet, so i can't tell you whether the books i find most interesting as a reader will actually be at all useful for the messy complicated work of raising kids! i will also give another caveat which is: i think it is possible to work yourself into a panicked frenzy reading about different parenting styles and obsessing over the "right" or "best" way to parent. americans in particular seem to be obsessed with ~optimizing~ our children + our parenting to produce the Absolute Best, Smartest, Most Independent Children. what i like about these books is that they all state very clearly there are many, many paths to raising happy, healthy kids... and their goal isn't to shame or pressure readers into adopting a particular parenting style, but to expose them to a wide range of alternatives so that they don't feel like they're trapped in one rigid parenting style or values system.

my rule of thumb for myself in this process has basically been: if a book generates new things for me to worry or obsess over or feel guilty about as a prospective parent, it is NOT helpful and should be set aside & forgotten IMMEDIATELY. what i am looking for are books that 1) expand and enrich my understanding of the diverse possibilities available to me, and 2) affirm that it's okay to follow what feels right for me/my kid/my values even if it runs against the grain of what my culture tells me is "right" or "optimal." i also have found it really valuable to read a wide range of books since inevitably you encounter compelling books whose core tenets conflict in some way. for me that’s just another way of again reminding myself that there are many equally legitimate ways of raising children. so it’s not a matter of determining which style “wins” but of learning to appreciate different approaches and thinking critically about which approach is the best fit for my values, lifestyle, and long-term goals.

so here are my recs!

highly recommend:

hunt, gather, parent: what ancient cultures can teach us about the lost art of raising happy, helpful little humans. this is a really enjoyable & very readable intro to cross-cultural parenting styles! don't be too put off by the whole "Ancient Cultural Wisdom" branding. it's clear that at some late point in the process the publishers were like "this will sell better if we can market it as paleo parenting... can you add in a few gimmicky lines to make it work?" in reality it's actually just a very interesting, detailed look at non-Western, mostly indigenous parenting styles that are still actively practiced today and are not "lost" in any sense. it has the typical "other cultures observed through a white Western writer's lens" limitations but you get the sense that the author really cared about doing the research, building relationships with the families she profiles, and representing different cultural practices in a respectful, non-exoticizing way. not a perfect book but definitely an enjoyable and useful one, especially if you are looking for alternatives to american parenting norms.

the self-driven child: the science of giving your child more control over their lives. i want to go back and revisit this one now that i am thinking about american parenting paradigms with a bit more nuance... but i really liked this one and found its advice super useful for teaching older students, too. it does a good job of explaining how & why "snowplow" parenting makes kids more anxious, less resilient, and less confident in their ability to persevere through setbacks. it totally transformed my mentoring practice for the better, i think, and it gives lots of good, practical advice for helping kids of all ages develop a meaningful sense of autonomy.

how to talk so kids will listen (and listen so kids will talk). i read this one ages ago and can't remember specific insights from it off the top of my head... i'd have to go back to my notes. but i remember thinking it was a very sound book on facilitating better communication between parents and kids.

of woman born: motherhood as experience and institution. i read this one a couple years back so again it's hard to remember what exactly stood out to me... but i just like adrienne rich's essays and i felt like this was a good framework for thinking about what it means to be both a feminist and a mother. i don't think you need to read the whole thing to get the gist of it... there's one particular essay/chapter i see floating around a lot that i think must've been the kernel of this book, and you could probably just read that.

how not to die: the foods scientifically proven to prevent and reverse disease. this one has nothing to do with parenting haha but it's the single best book i've ever read about food/diet. it's transformed the way i grocery shop, prepare food, and think about nutrition, and will be a cornerstone of the way i teach my kid(s) about healthy eating. very not diet-culture-y in tone/style.

peak: the new science of expertise. again, not related to parenting, but super useful as a framework for understanding how we learn/grow/improve across our lifespans. this is like, a "power of growth-mindset" book that moves beyond the vague "anyone can do anything!" attitude of most poorly-applied growth mindset teaching to give you a very concrete, evidence-based understanding of how people develop complex skills and improve in their chosen fields. i include it here because i think it's a useful counterweight to the common assumption that talent is inborn & fixed, and so if people don't succeed at something (music, sports, art, etc.) right away it means they lack a natural 'gift' for it and should abandon the effort.

recommend with some caveats:

our babies, ourselves: how biology and culture shape the way we parent. this was a mixed bag for me but ultimately i'd recommend it if you’re into comparative cultural approaches to parenting. the beginning sections are slow going (VERY dense/academic in style and focus) but it picks up in the middle and i found the second half intriguing, especially the parts about cosleeping, breastfeeding frequency and duration, and the tradeoffs of the "distanced" style of parenting americans are expected to practice. i would've read 500 more pages about cultural differences in approaches to sleep, food, etc (she spends about two pages profiling the US, Japan, the !Kung-San, Mayan communities, and a handful of other countries but it's very brief). as a whole the book isn’t a page-turner by any stretch but it’s still pretty interesting.

bringing up bebe: one american mother discovers the wisdom of french parenting. the caveats: i didn't loooove the author's gender politics & i feel like some of her recommendations (like preparing meals with multiple small courses as a way of teaching children to enjoy many different types of foods) put an undue burden on the person responsible for preparing meals (usually the mother). it was interesting to read it alongside our babies, ourselves because she's VERY focused on american vs. french cultural differences in parenting, but doesn't seem to register that both are still variations on a very typically western parenting style (one that focuses on producing an independent, self-reliant child who is expected to follow a tightly regimented family schedule from a young age). so i think i will take her advice with a grain of salt! but i did find the book itself to be quite funny, breezy, and charming to read, with lots of useful advice especially on the subject of how to avoid internalizing the guilt/shame our culture heaps upon mothers of small children.

misconceptions: truth, lies, and the unexpected on the journey to motherhood. a super interesting look at how pregnancy, childbirth, and postnatal care became intensely medicalized & pathologized in the united states. i'm not sure how much of her findings are still relevant now -- the book was published in the 1990s, i think? but hoo boy it's a gripping and disturbing look at the ways in which the medical establishment has historically worked to limit women's understanding of the options available to them and to shame/guilt them into making choices that are more convenient for the attending doctor or better for the hospital's bottom line. the caveats are, again, not sure how much of this still applies to the current state of pre- and postnatal care... and also i think the writer tends to romanticize natural childbirth in ways that felt a little hmm to me (like, i'm not convinced that enduring excruciating pain is somehow a mystical and sacred part of womanhood or whatever lol which is what she sometimes edges close to suggesting).

do not recommend:

how to raise kind kids. i am all for kind kids but this book felt reaaally patriarchal Christian to me in a sneaky way... it left a really bad taste in my mouth.

how eskimos keep their babies warm. as the use of a questionable term for the inuit people in the title might suggest... this book does not handle cross-cultural parenting with much thoughtfulness or sensitivity. i still can't believe this got published.

wanting what's best: parenting, privilege, and building a just world. this was a DNF for me... idk in theory i'm all for this book but i read the first three chapters and was like wow if you need someone to tell you to pay your nanny a living wage, give them vacation time, and treat them like a human being, you might need an even more basic primer on how not to be an asshole. idk it just felt a bit "...do people need to be told this?" to me.

i read 'em and they were fine but not standouts:

how to stop losing your sh*t with your kids

loving your child is not enough: positive discipline that works

the whole-brain child

raising good humans: a mindful guide to breaking the cycle of reactive parenting

on my to-read list:

mothers and others: the evolutionary origins of mutual understanding

parenting without borders: surprising lessons parents around the world can teach us

small animals: parenting in the age of fear

the tech-wise family: everyday steps for putting technology in its proper place

the danish way of parenting: what the happiest people in the world know about raising confident, capable kids

cribsheet: a data-driven guide to better, more relaxed parenting from birth to preschool

there’s no such thing as bad weather: a scandinavian mom’s secrets for raising healthy, resilient, and confident kids

#parenting tag #baby tag

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